Young Mycroft Holmes
by payzant
Summary: Snippet of life from the perspective of a young Mycroft Holmes


When the plane touched down at 9:02pm, I enjoyed a quiet sigh of relief. The pilot's dangerously high level of intoxication had prevented me from sleeping at all during the entirely of the flight, and consequently, put me in a rather sour mood. This, on top of the fact that we were, for some ungodly reason, on a plane in the first place, brought me to a icily caustic temperament that I was itching to use.

My brother imperceptibly shifted in his seat. I glared at him.

"What?" He muttered, turning his head slightly towards me with a puzzled look.

"Stop that."

"I can't move?"

"Hold it for literally ten minutes."

"I don't have to—"

"Oh shut up, three cups of orange juice and—"

"Only two!"

I smiled. "Three. You asked for a refill on your first because you thought I was asleep but I wasn't, in fact, you should have noticed, my breathing was far too irregular for a regular REM pattern. In fact I didn't sleep this entire flight. Why's that? Because of our beloved, intoxicated pilot."

He sighed in resignation. "The last cup was cranberry juice, there's a stain on my shirt. But was he actually, you know, because isn't that—"

"Illegal, yes, obviously. Don't think I won't bring it up with the airlines either." I leaned over my brother's body to examine the front of his shirt. A faint red stain haphazardly mopped up with a wet napkin, you could see the little paper fibers clinging to the shirt. Dammit. I leaned back into my seat and closed my eyes.

A loud beep interrupted my brief rest and signaled the exiting of the plane. Of course, this meant that it would be another half hour or so until we actually exited, given that we were the last row. It was purposeful, the last rows were cheaper by ten dollars or so, and my dad never missed a chance to save money. However, I wondered if the psychological annoyance of having a persistent line of people standing beside your seat waiting to use the restroom and the amplified turbulence were worth it.

Thirty minutes later, when my parents and brother stood up, grabbed their luggage and walked down the alley, I lagged behind. I squinted up through the bustling passengers and saw the pilot's cabin was open. Good, it was all made so easy. I casually slid out of my row and pulled my battered brown case from its compartment. I made my way to the front of the plane and as I approached the cabin door I felt a soft hand touch my shoulder—

"Right this way, don't want to get ourselves lost now do we!"

I swiveled to see a stewardess with a sweet, genuine smile motioning to the exit.

I spoke quickly and in an accusatory tone. "You do know what the legal implications of the pilot's actions are, do you?"

The stewardess' smile was replaced with a puzzled expression. "I'm sorry, what are you talking about?"

"The pilot's actions, I think it's five years."

"I'm sorry, I still don't know what you're talking about. Five years for what?"

"Piloting an aircraft while under the influence. I think it's five years."

In an instant, the stewardess' face was ashen, drained of all color. "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what you are—"

I despised explaining. "Please be quiet Ms. Violet you're only embarrassing yourself. There was a shot glass next to the trashcan when I entered the plane which means that either one of the stewardesses, the pilot, or the co-pilot consumed alcohol. The co-pilot greeted me as I entered, probably his first day given by his nervous disposition and shaking hands that left sweat stains on his trousers. He would never risk losing his newfound job, plus, his breath smelt minty. The three stewardesses including yourself are all asian and none of your facial complexions were ruddy to say the least, sorry for the racist but biologically true phenomenon. Logically that leaves the pilot, although this would make for a rather weak case indeed if I hadn't used the front restroom and smelt air freshener, which by god who uses air freshener unless to attempt to mask the smell of the pilot's vomit that was recently cleaned up off the floor. Whoever did so did a poor job, you have to scrub hard to clean up the fainter traces."

The stewardess simply gaped at me. "Yes… yes, you're all right, completely right, but—"

I nodded curtly and shrugged her hand of my shoulder. "Yes I know I'm right Ms. Violet, now, if you'll—"

"—my name… how do you know my name?"

I gave the young stewardess my saddest pitying smile. "Ms. Violet, on your right breast there is a little strip of paper called a name tag. It has your name on it."

Her face went red and her hand moved to instinctively cover the tag as if it was incriminating evidence that she had to hide. "You…" She stopped, glanced towards the cabin door, and reached into her pocket, pulling out a wad of cash. "T-This is the last time, I swear, I'll t-tell someone next time." She held out the money to me. "Not a word."

I glanced at the bribe. About thirty bucks or so… might as well. I took the cash, gave the visibly shaken Ms. Violet a fake smile, and exited the plane. I couldn't wait to see the look on Sherlock's face.


End file.
